The Yesterday Affair
by girl in the glen
Summary: Illya and Napoleon must extricate a valuable man from behind the Iron Curtain. In the process, Illya encounters someone from his past. This story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

A lone soldier stood at attention while his comrades passed by in perfect alignment, each step choreographed by past victories. For Illya Kuryakin, the scene took him back to his youth, the imagery too vivid even now for him to want to revisit.

How many times had the threat of being recalled twisted his stomach into violent spasms while all the time he continued in his stoic performance of the unaffected, mysterious Soviet. Only Illya's friend and partner had seen through that veil of deceit, its only intent to protect the young agent from his own fears.

Without having to defect, finally Illya had been granted the opportunity to remain in the United States without punishing reprisals from the Soviet government. It was a small act within the greater drama of the Cold War; the release of one man for what or whom?

It was never revealed.

This was all going through his mind as the Russian agent for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement watched the scene play out in front of him. He and Napoleon Solo had come to this Eastern bloc country with an assignment to help a defector escape the tyranny of not only his homeland, but also the THRUSH presence there.

As the two agents stood among a crowd of onlookers and patriots, they spotted the signal they'd been told to expect. Their contact was wearing a yellow hat with a green feather, a most unlikely fashion statement anywhere else but in this otherwise drab scene. Illya followed the path of the hat as it turned into a small café, nudging his partner to follow it inside.

"I see the hat, it's gone in there. Shall we?"

Napoleon smiled, indicating the hunt was now officially on.

The men crossed through the now dispersing crowd of citizens. The parade of soldiers was past them now, the stalwart commander taking up the rear as he followed his men into the nearby barracks. It was an odd arrangement, with a military presence in an old hotel that was now utilized for state personnel. The people outside milled around for only a few seconds, the fleeting sense of freedom an infrequent visitor whenever the streets were emptied of the seemingly ever-present soldiers. The mood lasted only a short time, however, as the citizenry of this little town quickly regained its appropriate, state approved façade.

Illya led the way into the café where he'd seen the yellow hat enter. It was up to him in these environs to take the lead when approaching anyone. His language skills were obviously needed here, as well as his familiarity with customs and idioms, if the opposition were nearby. Napoleon spotted the yellow hat with its feather bobbing above solemn faces, intent on their meals.

"I see it…'

Illya responded to his partner's nod in the direction of their quarry.

"… but I'm not sure I believe it."

Someone familiar to the Russian agent wore the yellow hat, and that caused him to have a momentary relapse into the hated apprehension that dogged him when in this part of the world.

"Don't speak to her, Napoleon. Let me do all of the talking, and I do mean all of it."

That sounded very abrupt to the American, piquing his interest rather than suspicion. Illya didn't often respond with great emotion, and Napoleon waited, wondering why his partner had been so brusque. And he wondered who this woman was, and what it was about her that provoked Illya.

Illya made his way through the tables, arriving at the one occupied by the woman in the hat. Her head was down as she perused the menu, and when she looked up at his approach, her reaction was at least equal to his.

"Illyusha, neuzheli eto ty?"

Napoleon heard just enough to know the woman was surprised to see Illya. He listened in as his partner continued…

"Da, Katya. Chto vy zdesʹ delayete? Eto ochenʹ opasno."

Illya's voice was low and, from the sound of it, concerned.

"I know the danger, Illyusha. I learned about it from you."

Now Napoleon was truly interested in this woman, and apparently, at some point, his partner had been as well. Illya frowned, his eyes a shade cooler than an ice cube.

"Katya, we do not have time to review the past. How is it that you are involved in this business? And how…"

She smiled at that. Finally, something that Illya didn't know. Napoleon recognized the glimmer of humor in the woman's eyes, understood as well the small twinge of pleasure that people sometimes gained from the few instances when the blond encyclopedia didn't have an answer.

"I was sent here by the government, Illya. I am, as the Americans say it, undercover. Like you, I am a spy."

Katya said the last in a whisper, her conspiratorial tone an amusement to Napoleon, but clearly not to Illya. Here was a situation that could turn into something very ugly, and Katya was in danger of being found out if she persisted in this foolishness.

"I understand the need to do something, anything, to help people become free from tyranny. But this, Katya, you are at risk. How are you possibly prepared for this role? And who sent you, who is responsible for this?"

Illya was on the verge of being angry, not an emotion he often allowed. He had learned early on to control his emotions, to safeguard his deepest feelings lest they become a tool for his destruction. Even now, inside of UNCLE, there was no room for examination; he always maintained a veneer of inscrutability.

Katya watched as the silent statements traveled across Illya's face, saw them in his eyes in spite of his efforts to hide them. Gone were the days when she had been smitten by those eyes. Too many years, too much heartache had passed between then and now.

Napoleon was catching some of the conversation, sure that Illya preferred that he not. The man was intensely private, and to encounter a piece of his past while on assignment… well, that had to sting a little. And what about Katya? How did she figure into the other man's life?

Illya gathered his wits and his manners in time to stop the conversation from going where it inevitably would. He and Katya did need to talk, but not here, not now.

"Napoleon Solo, this is Katya Mikhailovna Sidorov. She will lead us to Professor Rabinovich."

Illya cut his eyes in that inimitable way he had to let Katya know he was not pleased, but would acquiesce to the arrangement. She knew, of course, that he had no choice.

Napoleon watched this exchange. Illya was going to be in a bad mood tonight, something that made the wary agent hopeful that Rabinovich was a sociable type.

"I am very pleased to meet you, Katya. Is the professor coming here, or…"

Katya shook her head, causing the green feather to sway back and forth. It was unusually demonstrative, and Illya suddenly wondered why she would wear something so… noticeable. It wasn't for their benefit.

"Katya, who exactly sent you here? And who decided upon the hat and feather?"

The question alarmed Katya, and she understood immediately why Illya asked it. She took off the hat, throwing it beneath the table to their right and hoping that it wasn't too late. Illya and Napoleon were rising from their seats, and Illya grabbed Katya's arm, pulling her along with them as they headed for the open door.

Katya gasped, tugging on Illya's sleeve as she maneuvered herself in front of him. Napoleon took the hint and turned towards the bar, entering into a nonsensical conversation in broken Russian and eliciting laughter from the other men standing there.

Katya was watching the men who entered the café, and on impulse she pulled Illya's face to hers and kissed him. Without thinking, and without restraint, Illya met the kiss. Deep and full of the hunger that marked his life, he was plunged into an abyss in which only he and Katya existed.

Seconds or minutes passed, he couldn't tell.


	2. Chapter 2

Katya slowly pulled away from Illya, too much more of that and they would draw attention for a completely different reason. Napoleon, who had witnessed his partner's unusually ardent behavior with this mysterious woman, spoke up from his position at the bar.

"If you two are finished, I think we can safely get out of here now. Those soldiers weren't looking for us, but someone else will be."

Napoleon was surprised that Katya's presence seemed to have thrown the normally reserved Russian; this behavior was not what the American was used to.

"Yes, I believe you are correct.'

Illya turned again to Katya, his face expressionless as he scrutinized the pretty brunette. He must not let her get to him again, not like that.

"Katya, you go first, with Napoleon, and I will follow; just in case someone is following you."

The two designated for the lead both nodded their heads. Napoleon took Katya by the arm and led her out, laughing and talking as though they were enjoying themselves. Illya followed at a discreet distance, watching the other side of the street for any type of interest in his partner and the woman who accompanied him.

At the end of a row of buildings Kayta turned into a little house. She had a key, and Illya wondered if this was her house. Foolish to let it be used like this, he thought.

Katya opened the door and stood aside for Napoleon to enter, not waiting for Illya. She assumed he would enter some other way. Illya smiled, just a little, remembering what a clever girl Katya was, and how she enjoyed trying to outsmart him. Too long ago to remember the details, and yet he did.

When Illya was satisfied that no one was watching the house he crossed the street and walked around the house and into what appeared to be a small garden at its back. There was not a fence of any sort, only a small clump of shrubberies and a little pathway to a small stoop. With his typical stealth, Illya made his way to the back door, utilizing the shadows and always watchful for prying eyes at his back.

From within Katya heard the small rapping noise on her back door. She nodded to Napoleon who had withdrawn his gun from the concealed holster and was poised for action, should it be necessary. The outline of Illya's head through the small window in the door eased Katya's nerves as she reached for the doorknob. Illya quickly entered as she was pulling back the door, not allowing it to be opened completely.

"Illya, you are as quick as ever.'

The woman felt an old memory returning, of late night rendezvous and stolen moments of pleasure.

"Did you see anyone?"

Illya shook his head in a familiar quick motion.

"Nyet, the streets were empty.'

Then, with a mischievous grin he asked…

"Do you have any food Katya Mikhailovna?"

She nodded, laughing at the familiar inquiry.

"Da, da… as always, I find some way to meet your hunger _moy drug."_

That brought a genuine smile to Illya's face. He felt the weight of the years fall away then as he also remembered their youthful escapades, the passions of forbidden love and the real affection he had for this woman.

He kissed her on the cheek, and noticed the flush that filled Katya's face. Perhaps not only youthful emotions were present.

Napoleon watched this little scene from the adjoining living room, almost like a spectator in the audience of a play. He didn't often see Illya in this role, perhaps not since Marion Raven had he been aware of so much chemistry between his partner and a woman. Once thing about his Russian friend, when he did have that connection with the opposite sex, it radiated a wide swath; that was something they didn't need at the moment.

"So, did I hear something about food? I believe I am a little peckish myself."

Katya looked to Illya for a translation, eliciting a smile from the blond agent.

"He's hungry, as am I. May we impose upon your hospitality?"

As impulsive as the first time, the kiss Katya planted on Illya's lips was more playful and did not linger in wait of a response.

"Da, I will fix you something. Sit and talk, I will be quick. We are to meet the professor in less than an hour."

Katya was true to her word and within a few minutes was serving them a meal of cold meats and cheese, with some pickled onions and hearty brown bread. For this part of the world it was a sumptuous offering.

"Katya, they pay you well to live here? I do not recall such feasting in the old days."

She frowned, a mock seriousness in her voice as she replied.

"I told you, Illya Nickovetch. I am a spy, and I have ways of getting things to eat as well as sneaking people out of the country."

The two men exchanged war glances at that. Illya had told her to be serious earlier, scolded her for being exposed to danger. What if she really was a spy? He hadn't really believed it the first time she mentioned it.

"Katya, who do you work for? Is it the Soviets, or …'

The look on her face made Napoleon stop in mid sentence, a realization dawning on him in tandem with many questions he would ask when back in New York.

"You work for UNCLE?"

Illya's frown conveyed concern, frustration and surprise. Katya was with UNCLE, and yet Waverly had chosen to leave out that detail. He must have known at least some of the history between them, the old man knew everything.

"Illyusha, you do not look pleased. You are not the only Soviet recruit in the Command, you know. Your lofty position is well known, but there are a few others of us who have been given permission to assist in achieving world order."

Napoleon was completely astounded at this revelation, but he could tell by Illya's expression he was not alone.

"And do your superiors know that you are helping to remove a respected intellectual from their control, to defect to the West?"

Katya shook her head, a memory of heated discussions and of this man's superior attitude towards everything she ever tried to achieve.

"You have not changed, have you? Always assuming that you know best, that I am some foolish little girl whose actions must be monitored by you!"

Illya rose up suddenly, pushing his chair away from the table as he stumbled around it. Gone was the grace of movement that marked the man, he was angry and it was interfering with his usual calm demeanor.

"I only watch you to protect you, Katya. This is dangerous business, something.."

Katya relaxed a little, no longer angry she walked to where Illya stood and, with great tenderness, caressed his cheek as she whispered something into his ear, out of Napoleon's hearing.

The American saw his friend's tension dissolve as Illya closed his eyes and seemed to drift into some faraway place, Katya's effect on him almost hypnotic.

Who was this woman?


	3. Chapter 3

After the abruptness of Illya's display, his quick turnaround made Napoleon wonder just what the history was between the two Russians. Illya's previous life, the part of it that pre-dated UNCLE, was as mysterious as the man himself. What people didn't know about the blond far outweighed the volume that might be written based on available information.

Illya sat back down and commenced to eating, a sheepish expression the only residue of the outburst of a few minutes ago. Katya resumed her duties as hostess as though nothing had happened. Only Napoleon appeared to be affected by it, concern for his partner and his emotional state now playing into the mission they must complete. It was difficult to discern whether Katya would distract or diffuse, but she definitely had some kind of influence over Illya.

"So, I guess you must have been expecting me to ask, but…'

Napoleon raised an eyebrow and was met by a matching expression on Illya's face.

"Just how is it that you two know each other? And Katya, how long have you been with UNCLE?"

Katya looked at Illya before speaking, rightly assuming that he would not give up the details so easily.

"I am only here as a clerk for the Soviet consulate. As such, I am lent periodically to various tasks, and occasionally… '

Napoleon and Illya were both boring into her with two different sets of eyes that were equally penetrating.

"… Well, actually… this is my first time. Comrade Professor Rabinovich is not actually defecting. He is no longer safe from THRUSH here in his own country, nor anywhere in the East."

Each agent looked from the woman telling this story and back to the other. Another bit of information missing from their file on this mission it seemed, and they were hearing it from a rookie whose regular job was typing up reports for the Soviet ambassador.

"Gee, that's just great isn't it Illya? I wonder what else we don't know about this assignment."

Illya scowled at this new development. His earlier concerns about Katya's suitability for this role returned, and no amount of persuasion on her part would make him relent now.

"Katya, how is it that the Soviets are willing to give up the professor? Are you telling me that they actually volunteered you to UNCLE in order to help get him out of the country?"

Napoleon was disbelieving of this scenario, although he hesitated to express his mistrust of a Soviet plot. THRUSH being too much for the Russians just seemed… outlandish.

Katya pursed her lips together, she didn't want another outburst from Illya. And now Napoleon was looking at her the same way as the blond.

"I am not entirely certain that I understand your …ummm… objections. My superiors have told me to help UNCLE get the professor out of the country, and that is what I am doing. THRUSH has tried twice to kidnap him, and now it is believed that UNCLE can protect him best, somewhere in the West. Why do you question me as though I am not on your side?"

This spy business was perhaps not what she wanted after all. It seemed as though both men were now angry with her.

Illya ran his hands through his hair; a seething frustration with the situation had ruined his appetite.

"Where are we meeting Professor Rabinovich?"

"Near here, at the old train station. It is mostly deserted now, and he will be there at six o'clock. We are to take my car, pick him up and continue on to the border."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks that betrayed a sudden mistrust of the situation. The Soviets didn't let valuable intellectuals just wander into the West.

"What does Rabinovich look like, Katya? You do know him on sight, don't you?"

The woman was unsure of herself now, their scrutiny was beginning to weaken her previous enthusiasm for this gambit. What if she had been used as bait; surely her superiors were aware of the history she and Illya shared. The government knew everything about its citizens, especially those in its employ.

"I have never met him. I was told that he would be wearing a blue hat, with a green feather like the one I had…'

She looked from one face to the other, reading something she didn't quite understand in their expressions.

"It is a trap?"

Illya couldn't grasp how this had happened. Their orders had come from Waverly. Napoleon was equally perplexed, and was opening his communicator to contact headquarters when a knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

"Do not answer it, Katya. We cannot be certain who saw us come in your house."

"I can look through the little peephole. Perhaps it is only a neighbor."

She didn't really believe that, but insisted on going to look. Illya was at her side, gun drawn and ready for trouble.

Napoleon was speaking with Mr. Waverly in a matter of minutes as the other two went to the door.

"Mr. Solo, what do you have to report?"

"Sir, we are suspicious of the circumstances. Our contact, Katya, is an old friend of Illya's, something that came as quite a surprise. She also does not know the professor personally, and has only a pre-arranged signal to identify him."

"Ah, yes… the blue hat with the green feather. That was my idea, actually. Too absurd to be overlooked, and I assumed that you would question it."

Napoleon was a little surprised at that, but continued on, wanting to verify as much as possible.

"That is, uh, very much what we wondered about, sir. Katya tells us that the Soviets do not feel capable of adequately protecting the professor. Is that true?"

A short pause was enough to make Napoleon concerned. He was watching Illya and Katya approach the door, hoping that it wouldn't be trouble.

"Mr. Solo, that is entirely true. I can't explain it, nor do I wish to express doubt as to their motives. We are here to assist those in need and further the cause of peaceful coexistence. I have no reason to doubt this situation, so please do proceed as directed. Is there anything else?"

Napoleon was watching the front door, saw Illya withdraw his hand from the holster beneath his jacket.

"Ah, no… no sir. We will go and fetch our professor and continue on with the plan, just as directed. Thank you sir. Solo out."

Illya and Katya stepped back as she opened the door and let in a man in a long black trench coat. He looked just like agents from the KGB were expected to look, and Napoleon watched in fascinated wonder as he reached out and embraced Illya, both men pressing kisses in the distinctly European fashion, one on each cheek. Katya clasped her hands together and smiled, then received her own hug and kisses from the stranger.

When Illya turned around to face Napoleon, he was greeted by a confused expression, something that quickly disappeared to be replaced by the Solo Smile.

"Illya, is there anything you'd like to tell me, tovarisch?"

The three who now faced the lone American all wore grins, something that made Napoleon wonder if this was some type of Russian parlor game; kiss an agent, any agent…

"Napoleon Solo, may I introduce…"


	4. Chapter 4

Napoleon was waiting for the introduction, when suddenly it struck him how much the two blond men resembled. As Illya was saying the words, Napoleon was already marveling at it.

… my brother, Anton Nikovetch Sidorov."

The two men were smiling, still embracing each other as they watched Napoleon's face go through various stages of disbelief.

"Sidorov? That's Katya's last name. I don't completely understand, but…'

Napoleon extended his hand to the new man, unsure of what he thought he knew and now more confused than ever.

"… it's good to meet you. Who are you again?"

The three Russians laughed at that, and Napoleon did as well. If Illya and Anton were brothers…

"I apologize, Napoleon, for confusing you so completely. Anton is not my blood brother, but as close as one. Khoroshiy drug, da. Like a brother, and so much so that he married this one when I wasn't looking."

Illya pulled Katya into his arms and kissed her on the cheek, causing Napoleon to stumble mentally among this very odd assembly of kissing, hugging Russians.

What had happened to Illya Kuryakin?

The American shook his head, but didn't decline the invitation to join the hugging and laughing trio. As if this assignment wasn't already a little weird, now a Kuryakin look alike had been added to the mix. And he was married to the woman Napoleon had assumed was a long lost lover to his grinning partner.

"So, Anton, you and Katya live here, and you work for…?"

Surely he wasn't really a KGB agent.

Anton smiled, and Napoleon was struck again by the amazing resemblance between the two blond men. No wonder Katya had been conflicted about them.

"I am a member of the Soviet consulate, as is Katya. We were assigned here because we are married; it is an economic factor at times to limit expenditures by sending couples. We are… how do you say it Illyusha? Na dorogo…"

Illya laughed at that, his eyes glinting pleasure among his old friends.

"You are economical, moy drug…not expensive."

"Ah… '

Napoleon was mesmerized by the effect on his friend at being among people from his past. How much of a normal life had Illya left behind when he was shipped off to Paris and then London? Had he wanted to be shuttled off to work for UNCLE? For some reason they had never really discussed it.

"… Well, you three have a history then that must be very interesting. I'm afraid we don't have much time for it at the moment, however. Katya is about to take us to meet someone…'

Anton nodded his head vigorously.

"Da, da… I will also accompany you there. I came home to check on Katya, but when I looked in at the back door, I saw two men at the table so I decided to knock at the front door, so that Katya would have a reason to come out… well, you can understand."

Napoleon did understand, sort of. This triangle of old friends was still a little unclear to his way of thinking. Illya and Katya had obviously, at some point, been… involved. Romantically involved, by the looks of things. And then in steps Anton and, perhaps in Illya's absence she turned to the other man; the one who looked enough like Illya to be his brother. There was no mistaking the passion behind that first kiss he had witnessed in the café. None.

"Katya, how much time will we need to get to the train station?"

Napoleon wanted this mission on its way and finished. They would all be traveling together to the border, so whatever catching up was needed could be accomplished during the trip. For now, it was down to business and trying to keep Rabinovich out of the hands of THRUSH. This report was going to be complicated, no doubt about it.

The modest home of the Sidorovs was soon behind them as the group of four, not three, traveled by car to the old train station. It was less than a ten minute drive and in the fading light of an autumn afternoon the surrounding countryside made the scene very painterly with its muted tones of gold and russet above the greens and browns of the earth.

Katya was the first to spot the professor; he stood on the platform, far enough back to avoid detection to anyone not looking for him. The feather was evident even in the shadows and the expression of undiluted fear made him doubly easy to identify.

"Stop the car here, Katya…'

Illya ordered her in a tone that told Napoleon he was no longer in that afterglow of friends and lovers reunited. It would be up to the Russian agent to approach Rabinovich, to reassure the man in a familiar language of his identity and motives.

It was while Illya was approaching the station platform, gun hand poised, that Napoleon spotted another car coming towards them. Without waiting for an identification, he instructed Katya to drive up to the steps. To her credit, she didn't ask questions and did as she was told; Napoleon jumped out of the car and started yelling at Illya and Rabinovich, hoping it wouldn't scare off the academic they had been sent to retrieve.

"Illya, there's a car coming, grab the professor and let's get out of here!"

Illya looked around and saw the approaching vehicle, still far enough away to not be certain of its occupants. There was no point in waiting, however, and he spoke rapidly in Russian to the confused man, and was relieved when Rabinovich ran down the steps and into their waiting car. When Napoleon and Illya were in and closing their doors, Katya was already underway and heading towards the border, minutes ahead of the other vehicle.

"Can we outrun them?"

Napoleon's question was fraught with doubt, the car they were in didn't seem to possess a racing engine. Anton was the one who replied, however, proud to be able to offer assurances.

"Do not be fooled by the appearance of my automobile. I am a mechanic when not filing reports and figuring out budgets. Isn't that right, Illya Nikovetch?"

Kuryakin looked at his American partner and smiled, nodding his head as Anton looked on.

"He is telling you the truth, Napoleon. Perhaps you will understand better my own love of speed once we're fully underway. I imagine we are talking a modified head, forged pistons and connecting rods, and porting of the valves and intake; am I correct, Anton?"

Katya had already floored the accelerator, causing them to nearly catapult to a speed reminiscent of formula 1 racing. Napoleon was impressed and relieved at this development. Somehow he was not surprised that Illya would have a friend capable of re-engineering a car.

Professor Rabinovich was seated between Illya and Napoleon and was quietly listening to the snatches of Russian, lost during the English exchanges. He knew little of these people, but the assurances he had been given by his government made him accept that they would do him no harm and would, in fact, deliver him to safety somewhere in the West.

As their car sped along the roadway towards freedom, the five people inside relieved the tension with talk of engines and old times, of family members lost and, finally, the mission itself.

"Professor Rabinovich, when we arrive at the border there will be another car waiting to take you to a safe house. You will remain there until other accommodations are finalized. Do you have any questions for us?"

Illya was handling the conversation, and he felt sure that this man must have some reservations about leaving his home, even if the hoards of THRUSH were after him.

"Comrade Kuryakin…'

Rabinovich spoke to Illya in Russian, and he assumed much. After all, his own government was responsible for rescuing him.

"… I have been assured that my work will not be impeded by this change. I am unsure why my work has been targeted by this THRUSH, or why my own government should feel inadequate to protect me from them. I suspect that what I will eventually find is that my pursuits are best accomplished outside the parameters imposed by the Soviet state, and that it is better for all that I am escorted away and not made a martyr within these borders."

The three Russians listened attentively, alerting Napoleon to the seriousness of what Rabinovich said with their stern expressions.

"Illya, what is he saying? I couldn't get all of it… something about the state.'

Illya nodded, listening now to Anton as he whispered in the front seat to his wife. He couldn't make out all of it with Napoleon talking to him at the same time. He finally gave up trying and responded to Napoleon's question.

"Professor Rabinovich thinks that the Soviets are letting him go to the West to get rid of his possibly inflammatory rhetoric against totalitarianism. More or less."

"Oh. Yeah, that's what I thought he said."

The next two hours were spent in casual conversation, periodically broken up by a recollection of something from the past. Rabinovich remained silent; intellectual brooding something he would indulge in greater amounts once out of this repressive environment.

Anton was driving now, and had been for the last hour. With the border just a few kilometers ahead of them, the UNCLE agents began to prepare for the crossing. They had papers for this, and other agents waiting for them to take possession of their package.

Katya and Anton had maintained their whispered conversation off and on, while Illya and Napoleon discussed the hand off of the professor to their UNCLE colleagues, and the probability that Waverly would have another assignment on the docket for them.

"There it is. There is the border."

Anton's announcement triggered some activity as paperwork and passports were prepared for presentation. Napoleon thought he could see the UNCLE agents beyond the checkpoint, and was relieved that their part of this affair was nearly over.

Illya drew a long breath, aware of his disappointment at leaving his friends behind. Finding them a part of this mission had been a surprise, one that had gone from being disconcerting to comforting in many ways. To be reminded of his past was not entirely unwelcome, or unpleasant. He wondered if they would simply go back to their lives as employees of the state, at the consulate.

The car was at the checkpoint now, and Illya wondered why Anton hadn't parked the car for them to get out. This wasn't part of the plan.

"Chto ty delayeshʹ moy drug?"

Anton's answer was to remove his and Katya's papers and present them to the guard. He spoke to the man while passing him something more than a passport.

"Vy pomnite menya svoim detyam , da?" (_You will remember me to your children, yes?)_

Illya was frozen. He couldn't even protest without possibly eliciting reprisals of some sort. Anton was defecting, and he was doing it on UNCLE's operation. Napoleon was beginning to catch on, and saw the look in his partner's eyes.

"Illya?"

Katya looked tentatively over her shoulder at the two UNCLE agents as Rabinovich sat silently, studying the effects of falling dominoes in his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Previously…**

Illya was frozen. He couldn't even protest without possibly eliciting reprisals of some sort. Anton was defecting, and he was doing it on UNCLE's operation. Napoleon was beginning to catch on, and saw the look in his partner's eyes.

"Illya?"

Katya looked tentatively over her shoulder at the two UNCLE agents as Rabinovich sat silently, studying the effects of falling dominoes in his mind.

**~~~~~:**

**Conclusion**

There was dead silence in the car as each person considered his, or her next move.

The two men from UNCLE were momentarily stunned by the action of their driver, but Illya quickly regained his composure just as Napoleon was preparing for a heated exchange in Russian.

"Anton, what have you done? If you cross the border now, you make UNCLE an accessory to your defection. You will not receive amnesty within the organization, not with this type of deception as your passport to the West."

Illya thought he understood why Anton was doing this, and his heart went out to him and Katya. He recognized a surge of guilt as the past years raised the specter of a life bound by a constant government presence, even in one's private affairs. It might have been him but for events over which he had been given no control.

"Illyusha, you of all people…"

Katya's eyes were brimming with tears. She loved both of these men, her husband and the man who had left her for a life of freedom and adventure. Perhaps theirs had not been a great love affair, but it had been some type of love at least. Now, with Anton, she knew he loved her and would do this, make this great effort, in order to give her a better life; a life of freedom and of choices.

Anton kept his eyes on the gate ahead of them. This border crossing was populated by men of his acquaintance; he trusted them to let him pass. The man to whom the money was given was named Gregor Poporov. He held no ill will towards Anton, and would enjoy the bonus given him for the blind eye he was prepared to turn.

Napoleon took all of this in, the sight of the frightened couple who were determined to leave their lives behind them and embark on a journey into the unknown. A sense of respect for their bravery seeped into his emotions unannounced.

"It's all right, Illya. Let's help them do this."

Illya turned towards the American with a stunned expression on his face. Illya supposed that Napoleon was mad if he thought Waverly would condone this defection. They were here at the invitation of the Soviet government, after all. How would it look if they removed two of its people in the process?

"Napoleon, how do you propose to make this work? Waverly can't possibly explain this to the Soviets.'

Illya took in a deep breath and surveyed the scene before them.

"I will handle this. They are my friends, my countrymen… Let it fall on me to take responsibility for this, tovarisch."

Napoleon and Anton each took on puzzled expressions while Katya blinked back more tears. Illya would do this, it was just like him to try and smuggle old friends out of a life he had also left behind.

Only Rabinovich now seemed unaffected by the goings on in the vehicle. It was assumed that he did not speak English fluently. As it turned out, everyone was wrong.

"My friends, if I may call you that now, considering our circumstances…'

Thee of the other four looked at the professor, amazed at his measured and proper British accent. So many surprises today.

"If I may offer a suggestion, it is perhaps reasonable to present this scenario as one of a family leaving together, rather than only me."

Napoleon's expression became even more perplexed looking.

"How do you mean, Professor? No one here is related, unless I've missed something… again."

He said that with a sideways glance at Illya, who remained impassive.

Rabinovich continued…

"What I mean to say is that either of these two…'

He pointed to Anton and Katya in the front seat.

"Could pass as a child of mine. I suggest we simply tell the authorities that this is the case, that Katya, for instance, is a long lost child of my youthful indiscretion and that we have recently been reunited in the wake of this business with THRUSH. She was, after all, sent here specifically to bring me in."

Silence was his only response as each person considered the plausibility of his plan. Something in the back of his brain niggled at the agent, made Napoleon wonder about it.

"Professor Rabinovich, _is_ _Katya your daughter?_ Was it you that requested she come here and be a part of this assignment?"

Now Katya was looking wide-eyed at the professor and then Napoleon, amazed that the American would suggest such a thing.

"That is ridiculous, Mr. Solo. I am certain that the professor…'

But the professor wasn't denying anything. Katya thought back on her childhood, of the missing parent she had longed for but had never known. Her mother had done all that was possible to raise her two children, and everyone knew the story of the soldier who had never returned from the war. Katya knew the story and reveled in the heroism she attributed to the man portrayed as being her father.

Illya knew the story as well, and now as he watched her, the possibility of Rabinovich's scenario being true riveted him to the expectation of an answer to Napoleon's question.

Rabinovich smiled, but shook his head.

"Nyet, Mr. Solo… Katya…YA ne tvoy otets moyego rebenka."

Katya nodded, realizing how close she had come to hoping that the professor was her father. How strange that a few minutes in one's life can alter so drastically a perception of truth.

Illya was quick to get back to their dilemma.

"So, we proceed then, with the professor's plan? Katya, can you play the part of a loving, long lost daughter?"

Katya wiped away the last tear and grinned.

"Da, da… I can and I will do it. Thank you Illya, Napoleon. Thank you."

Anton put his head on the steering wheel, his breath coming now in a deep sigh. This is what he needed, this opportunity. One good opportunity.

Gregor Poporov returned with papers and a knowing smirk on his face. He would do this, and take the money willingly. Life was about more than duty, after all. And Anton was a good man, with a pretty wife. He bore them no ill will for doing what they were about to do.

"Here you are. Go now, dolgo zhitʹ moy drug."

"Yes, long life to both of us… all of us. Do svidania, Gregor."

The gate was opened and the car pulled through with moderate speed, nothing to indicate that they must rush through it before someone caught on to their scheme.

No one spoke for the first quarter mile of travel into the new, free zone in which they were driving. It was beyond belief how easily the plan had worked, but the prospect of telling the story to Waverly about Rabinovich and Katya now occupied the thoughts of both UNCLE agents.

"Mr. Waverly will, of course, never accept the story as true. That is not the issue, it is whether or not he will allow the professor to state it as such to the American authorities."

Napoleon agreed with Illya. Waverly would have known all of the players, all of their histories. It was still odd that he hadn't warned Illya about his old friends.

"Unless…"

Illya looked at his partner, questioned with a raised eyebrow the disconnected thought that prompted a single word.

"Unless what? What is it you are thinking?"

Napoleon cut his eyes to take in his partner's expression, then looked forward to the couple in the front seat. Katya was sitting close to her husband, her head on his shoulder as though it was only the two of them in this car. Illya was unsure of the intent of Napoleon's observation, his head was still reeling with the consequences that might ensue from this deviation from the plan.

"Anton, what made you decide, on such short notice, to simply leave your home?"

From behind it was obvious that Anton's shoulders suddenly tightened, so much so that Katya raised her head to alleviate a sudden discomfort. Illya had a sickening feeling in his gut, an instinctive wariness now concerning his old friend. What had Napoleon sensed that he hadn't?

Rabinovich stiffened slightly. He had survived many things in his life, and this last journey was one he hoped would remove him into the safety of an academic's quiet existence. Looking at the back of Anton's head, he wondered now if that dream was in danger.

Katya was clueless to the tension in the back seat. She turned sleepily towards the men behind her and was surprised to see Illya reaching beneath his coat; she knew he carried his gun in a shoulder holster.

"Anton, you haven't answered my partner's question. Why the sudden urge to travel to the West?

Katya was confused. Did Illya's tone sound accusatory?

"Chto ne tak?"

Anton placed his hand around Katya's neck with a grip so firm it caused her to cry out.

"Nothing my love. Nothing is wrong, is it comrades."

Katya was afraid now, of the hand that harnessed her neck, of Anton and Illya… everything was frightening. She tried to withhold her terror, but tears formed in her eyes and before long the pleading began.

"Anton, moya lyubovʹ! You are hurting me."

Illya was incensed, but he couldn't show it. He could not betray any weakness to this traitor. Anton was doing more than just leaving his Soviet masters; he was the enemy within the other great threat to individual freedom.

"How, Anton? How did you come to this, working for THRUSH?"

The other blond laughed at the absurdity of Illya's innocence. Was he really so altruistic in his loyalty to UNCLE that no sense of personal advancement ever tempted the former Soviet?

Katya tried to pull away, her disbelief mixed with an encroaching terror.

"THRUSH? What are you saying, Illya? Anton, tell him."

But Anton said nothing, only kept his grip on Katya's neck as he drove purposefully toward his destination.

Illya and Napoleon recognized the threat: Anton could probably snap Katya's neck, and would most certainly hurt her badly should they try and stop him. The woman was crying, her shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat. She had to believe that Anton didn't know he was hurting her.

Throughout all of this, professor Rabinovich had sat quietly, mesmerized by the drama and the prospect of his being handed over, in spite of everything, to THRUSH. He had run from them, refused them and now, with this deception, it seemed he would end up in their clutches after all. Life was strange, taking twists and turns that a person could never foretell in spite of preparation and planning.

Rabinovich had been educated in various institutions, was in fact British by birth. He had defected to the Soviet Union in a pique of socialistic asceticism that he had grown to regret. This latest journey was only one in a long series of wanderings, and he found that there was a lack of enthusiasm for going forward. He had reasoned himself into a black hole, had lost all hope of life being better than the absence of it.

As Illya and Napoleon tried to fathom their predicament and a way out of it, Rabinovich reached into his coat pocket and found the handle of his small revolver. No one had bothered to check him for a weapon, something that he found now to be oddly amusing. Perhaps he could achieve some type of wholeness in an expression of self-sacrifice. The thought of it drove him now, silenced any regrets that might try to interfere.

Rabinovich gripped his gun with a resolve that was strangely exhilarating. This was, perhaps, the most obtuse form of intellectual investigation he would ever indulge in. It would certainly be the last.

Illya felt the movement next to him too late to grasp what was happening. In the instant before his gun went off, Rabinovich smiled a farewell to the other travelers, briefly wondering how this would impact their lives, if at all.

The blast was deafening inside the small car, and Anton applied the brakes in a desperate attempt to gain control of the situation. Katya broke the hold he had on her and moved to the far side of the front seat.

Illya felt the spray of blood and matter as it rained on him, a sudden revulsion causing him to nearly retch. Napoleon was on the receiving side of the professor's body as it was thrust to its left, the opposite side of the fatal wound.

Immediately cognizant of the distraction, Napoleon took the advantage offered and reached forward, putting his arm around Anton's neck in a strangling embrace.

"Stop the car! Do it now, or I'll break your neck."

Anton did as he was told. Katya was wailing now, the sight of Rabinovich and the despair in seeing her husband's situation was too much. As the car pulled to a stop Illya jumped out of the back seat and began to try and wipe away the remnant of the professor's spewed blood. He tore off his jacket and threw it on the ground, then went to the trunk of the car to look for something, anything to clean up the mess. He found some rags that he gathered up before returning to the front of the car.

Napoleon had his gun out and was handling Anton, who was unable to fathom the incredibly bad luck of losing Rabinovich to suicide. Now what would he do? THRUSH would never accept him, and UNCLE… What would they do to him after this?

Illya opened the door for Katya who was now near hysterics. She fell into his arms, sobbing as she tried to stand. Illya held her, close to tears himself in the midst of this display. She didn't deserve this.

In a surge of insolent abandon, Anton turned and began to wrestle Napoleon for the gun the American held. Illya turned at the sound of the scuffle, and eased Katya down onto the ground as he ran around the front of the car to aid his partner. To Illya's horror, he saw Anton gain the advantage and point the UNCLE Special at its owner and start to fire.

Illya was fast; he fired on his old friend, felling him in one shot. He felt more than saw Katya come up on his right side, her screams a harsh intrusion into his own grief at what had just happened.

"Katya… Mne ochenʹ zhalʹ… so sorry."

She didn't hear that last. Her heart was pounding so hard that she couldn't hear anything, and Illya was so overcome with what he had been forced to do that he failed to see Katya reach into the purse she still held and withdraw a small weapon.

"You have ruined my life, taken away everything I love. I don't care about THRUSH, or that pompous professor… none of it. I loved Anton, and now you've killed him.'

Illya stepped forward, but Katya swung around and pointed the pistol at Napoleon.

"He can be the sacrifice for my Antoshka. Your friend for my husband, Illyusha. It has to be."

Napoleon tried to step away from the car but the gun was leveled at him, leaving him nothing to do except run away, and he wouldn't leave Illya.

"Please, Katya…'

Illya was pleading now. How had it come to this?

"Please, give me the gun. Anton was going to kill you, Katya, and then he tried to kill Napoleon. You know this, da? You saw it happen, he was going to snap your neck."

Katya didn't move, her eyes were intent on Napoleon as Illya continued to speak. Her hand was steady, a surprising observation to both men as they tried to unravel this strange turn of events.

"Anton would never have killed me. He was merely using me to get you to cooperate. And now you have taken him from me, just as Rabinovitz took our future. His stupid, cowardly action has ruined everything. Everything!"

With that she pulled the trigger of the gun aimed at Napoleon. Two blasts were heard as Napoleon spun from the impact. Katya went down, her face drawn in anguish as Illya's bullet made its mark. The Russian ran to Napoleon, unable to look at the woman who, just hours earlier, had kissed him and then welcomed him into her home. The betrayal of not one, but two of his former friends, weighed on him as he bent down to tend to the only one he now counted as true.

"Napoleon… '

Illya helped the wounded American up from the ground, steadied him and checked the damage.

"…. Not too bad. We had better get you to a doctor, just the same."

Napoleon was still in shock, not from blood loss but from the lightening quick destruction that had just taken place. Illya's face was unreadable, but there was no doubt in Napoleon's mind that beneath the façade was a torrent of anguish that must be pushing him to a limit that only Illya could repeal.

"Illya, I am so… sorry.'

It seemed lame, to have nothing more than the word sorry.

"I'll call in this mess to Waverly. You should… "

Napoleon let the last words die away. _What should Illya do?_ How could he possibly gather the remains of his friends and not bow to the guilt of having killed them? How had this all gone so wrong?

Napoleon called in for help, requested a team from Berlin be flown in to handle the clean up for this mess. Illya finally squatted down next to the car, out of view of the death scenes inside and out. Napoleon's brush with lead was minor, a flesh wound that was easily handled with a handkerchief.

The weary agent sat down beside his Russian friend and partner. Illya had eased himself into a seated position and was leaning against the front tire. No longer concerned about going anywhere, or how he looked, he had removed the turtleneck he had been wearing and put on a white shirt from Rabinovich's luggage.

He wouldn't miss it.

~~~~~:

Two days later found Solo and Kuryakin back in New York. Napoleon sported a sling to support his damaged left arm. Illya looked the same, but beneath the physical were layers of unmined emotions that refused to surface.

It was not a hero's welcome that greeted them when they walked into Alexander Waverly's office.

"Please sit down, gentlemen."

They did. Sit down. They also shot matching glances to each other that betrayed a certain concern about what might be coming next.

"I uh… I am very sorry, Mr. Kuryakin, for the loss of your two … uh… your friends. That was most unfortunate, to be sure. You are to report to Dr. Durbin at eleven o'clock. Mr. Solo, you are to make certain that your partner reaches that appointment."

Illya was not surprised. He was not happy about having to see a psychiatrist, but he understood the reasoning. It might even be helpful, and he was disinclined to object.

"Yes sir, I will be there."

Napoleon couldn't help looking surprised at that, but Waverly merely smiled.

"I'm glad to hear it, young man. Dreadful business, and most unexpected. I'm afraid we missed that completely. Please have your reports in by Thursday morning. That is all."

Illya rose first, anxious to get out of this office, and wishing he could just… get out. A few days off might have been a nice gesture.

Napoleon decided to speak privately with Mr. Waverly, and Illya left without him, certain of the content of the conversation. When the pneumatic doors had closed, Napoleon directed his gaze and his speech to his superior.

"Mr. Waverly, I hate to ask this but, I really need to know. Did you have prior knowledge about Katya and Anton? Were you aware that they were friends of Illya?"

Waverly placed his right hand over his left as he prepared to answer his Chief Enforcement Agent. Solo was a good man. So was Kuryakin.

"Mr. Solo, in the course of making decisions at the level in which I operate, there are occasions in which certain information is handled as though it were non-existent. I did not feel obligated to inform Mr. Kuryakin of the presence of his Russian compatriots. It was a non-issue as far as I was concerned. Are you suggesting that it would have made a difference?"

Napoleon felt the heat rise in his face. Why exactly _did _he think it mattered about Katya and Anton?

"Sir, Illya… Mr. Kuryakin, was placed in a position in which he found it necessary to shoot both of them. It has taken a great toll on him, emotionally and mentally, over the last few days. If we had known previously about who was involved…"

Waverly understood. He even empathized. It didn't matter.

"And tell me, Mr. Solo. What difference would it have made? Would Mr. Kuryakin have been more or less likely to act as he did had he known previously about the Sidorovs? Would he have not tried to save your life?'

The steely grey eyes were only slightly less intimidating beneath the bushy brows than they might have been on a man eating tiger. Solo was immediately sorry for having brought up the subject.

"Mr. Solo, I have many regrets about this affair, not the least of which is that Mr. Kuryakin, through no fault of his own, has become victimized by his own history and affections. The betrayal by Anton Sidorov is despicable, and yet his own motives were to better himself and his wife. Her reaction, equally regrettable, was borne of grief and … well, who knows what else.'

The old gentleman took a deep breath; his own history was perhaps only a little less messy than this affair.

"Dr. Durbin will be gentle with our Russian. Mr. Kuryakin needs to talk about this, to acquit himself of the guilt he is carrying. Give him some time, Mr. Solo."

That was it. Napoleon thanked the old man and turned to leave. Just before he reached the doors, he turned once more.

"Excuse me, sir.'

The hoary head rose again and forced its attention on the man facing him.

"Yes, Mr. Solo?"

"Was Rabinovich really Katya's father? He said no, but… something made me doubt him."

Waverly considered the stealth of his man, the cunning that powered him through difficult situations. He deserved an answer.

"No, no he was _not_ _Mrs. Sidorov's_ father."

Solo tilted his head, an unconscious reaction to things that didn't sound quite right.

"All right. Thank you sir."

As Napoleon was walking out of the office, he thought of the inflection in Waverly's voice… _not_ _Mrs. Sidorov's_ father. That caused the agent to stop in mid-step.

"Then whose father was he?"

He resumed his steps. Perhaps it was better to let this one alone.


End file.
